


Enthroned

by Beleriandings



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (although not actually that related to valentines day), Bittersweet, M/M, Throne Sex, kingship, valentines day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 22:20:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6027502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fingon smiled a little, his guess as to his cousin’s whereabouts confirmed. He always liked to be right about Maedhros, and he usually was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enthroned

Fingon was so used to waking to an empty bed these days, that it took him a moment - and the slight depression in the mattress and the pillow left by another person - to remember that Maedhros’ temporary presence had been anything more than a bright dream. That or just a memory of happiness snatched from before the encroaching darkness, in simpler times.

Yet, he realised as his head cleared of the haze sleep left behind, Maedhros certainly _had_ been there, the perfunctory guest apartments they always took the precaution of having prepared going unused, as they always did.

Yes, Maedhros _had_ been there, just last night. But now he was gone.

Fingon sat up in bed, looking around him. Maedhros’ heavy fur-lined robe - so hastily flung off the night before, to pool on the floor with Fingon’s own - had gone, as well as his soft leather indoor shoes.

Fingon got up, pushing his mass of unravelling braids from his face and passing a hand across his eyes, trying to clear the last of the sleep from them. He shivered for a moment as he got out of bed and the cold air hit his naked skin. Then he slipped on his own shoes, drawing his robe about him. There was almost always a chill in the air at night in the stone corridors of Barad Eithel, even in the wing set aside for the royal family and their most trusted guests.

A wing which had seen few enough inhabitants of late, thought Fingon ruefully as he padded down the hallway. Since his father’s death, there had been few guests. The roads that had once crossed the land and brought his cousins from far off were now all but impassable, the mountain passes infested with more enemies than Fingon’s own marchwardens and patrols could drive off easily.

The corridors were deserted at this time of night, but for a few guards in their alcoves, who bowed to him as he walked past. He nodded in return to each of them. They looked as though they were expecting him, which made him more certain of his hunch as to where Maedhros had gone.

The guards on either side of the throne room doors drew them open for him as he swept through, the hem of his robe whispering over the stone floor. When he had passed, the doors swung closed behind him soundlessly, shutting with a quiet click.

The throne room was empty, dull, cloud-hazy moonlight slanting down through the high windows to fall in bright squares upon the floor. Or rather, it was not quite empty. In the centre of the room stood a single figure, a patch of inky darkness in a gap between two slanting streams of light, thrown into shadow each time a cloud passed.

Fingon smiled a little, his guess as to his cousin’s whereabouts confirmed. He always liked to be right about Maedhros, and he usually was.

Maedhros stood in the centre of the room with his back to Fingon, his face turned towards the great stone throne upon the dais at the far end.

He did not turn as Fingon came to stand at his side, their shoulders touching. For a while they stood in silence, gazing forward at the throne together. The throne where Fingolfin had so recently ruled from, given to him by Maedhros.

The throne that was now Fingon’s.

Fingon cleared his throat. “It’s cold in this room at night.”

Maedhros turned to face him. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I’m sorry, Fin.”

“Come back to bed?”

“We’ll have to go back separately.”

Fingon gave a regretful smile. “Whatever damage there was to be done is probably done already. Those guards outside saw me follow you in here in the dead of night, each of us coming from the royal apartments, while your supposed rooms are in the other direction.” He sighed. “But yes, perhaps we should anyway.” He’d spent so long keeping up appearances now that the mere fact of futility was not nearly enough to make him stop, and he was sure the same was true of Maedhros. _And indeed, it was absurd how widely applicable that idea was, in every aspect of there lives_. The thought made a quiet bitter chuckle escape his lips.

“What?” asked Maedhros, reaching out to his mind even as he said the word. He frowned as Fingon let him in. “Finno…”

Fingon sighed. “Ah, don’t worry. I’m not losing hope. Or growing dejected. Or fading under the pressure. Or any of the ridiculous fears you have for me.”

Maedhros pursed his lips.

“Maitimo, my love, I promise.” He turned a little and laid a hand under Maedhros’ chin, tilting his face to meet his gaze. “I’m not losing hope… because I can’t. Because who would there be to bring _you_ hope, then?”

Maedhros smiled ruefully, his eyes flickering closed for just a moment. “Very well, I concede you may be right.”

The silence stretched out, but neither of them moved, both staring forward at the throne. They were close enough that the backs of their fingers just barely brushed each other in the space between their bodies, a sensation that always filled Fingon with a deep sense of peace and calm; he would have been happy enough to simply stand there all night, had the sombre, weighty presence of his own throne not been there to keep returning him to reality. Finally though, it was Maedhros who turned to him with a sigh, pushing back the hair that had half-fallen over his face. “I suppose we should - ”

“Shh” said Fingon suddenly, listening. He placed a finger over Maedhros’ lips for a moment as Maedhros went to speak. After a moment of tension, he relaxed, recognising the sound. “Oh, it’s only the changing of the guard.”

Maedhros nodded. “We must have been here a while.”

“Yes.” Fingon sighed. “And I suppose the guards leaving will have taken the fact that we were here back to the barracks with them. Or told the new ones.”

“I suppose they will have.”

Another silence, as Fingon allowed their thoughts to merge just a little again, letting all the strength and warmth and love he had flow through to Maedhros. But Maedhros only sighed. “You give me too much of yourself, Fin. Save some, you’ll need it more than I.”

“Not more” said Fingon, taking his hand, and beginning to lead Maedhros to the dais. “Besides, what kind of king would I be if I did not spend my strength in giving heart to my people?”

The had climbed the steps, and stood before the throne now, facing each other, hands clasped loosely between them. Maedhros sighed. “Knowing you, probably still a fairly good one.”

Fingon raised an eyebrow, drawing Maedhros closer. “Indeed?”

Maedhros looked perplexed for the briefest of moments before a tiny indulgent smile flickered across his face, as Fingon pulled him close, drawing him down for a gentle kiss. Maedhros drew back and smiled, a little of the wan weariness ebbing from him for once. “Yes. Trust me on this.”

“Oh, I do trust you” Fingon said, an idea suddenly beginning to form in his mind. He could not help but grin. “You are, in fact, my most loyal and trusted subject. But the question is,  _Lord Maedhros_ …” he placed his finger on Maedhros’ chin again, angling his face so that their gazes met, “do you place the same trust in your king? After all, the relationship between a king and his lord is a unique one, a delicate balance…” he let his smile turn catlike, relishing the feeling of Maedhros knowing what would come next. It was an old familiar game between the two of them, a play that brought them both assurance that their paths were the right ones - or at least the _only_ ones - even as they sated their mutual desire.  

“A delicate balance between the king’s trust in his lords to see his laws enforced, his lands watched over and held against the enemy, his people kept safe…” said Maedhros, smiling himself and drawing a long, pale finger down the centre of Fingon’s chest to where his robe began to divide.

“…And the lords’ trust that the king will make just laws, rule wisely across the land, distribute supplies in hard times, and provide protection and strength of arms for all the people in times of war. That he should be a leader that all can place their trust in, in fact.” Fingon held Maedhros in his arms and pulled him close, making sure to let his cousin feel the bulge of his fast-growing erection beneath the layers of fabrics that separated them. As he did so he turned them in a circle, almost as if they were dancing, dropping feather-light kisses on the exposed skin at the hollow of Maedhros’ throat. All this too, was familiar, and Maedhros knew how to read it well enough.

“Fin, here? We could just go back to bed and…” Maedhros tailed off, his eyes flicking up nervously to the door as Fingon sat down upon his throne and pulled Maedhros down alongside him, wedged halfway between Fingon’s lap and the heavy stone arm of the throne.

“Yes” said Fingon, deciding all at once. Although, he supposed, he had to admit that the idea had been growing as a seed in the back of his mind from when he had left the bedroom, slipping on the robe with the inner drawstring from which hung the small, discrete glass vial of oil that had served them so well and so often in the past. “Yes, it’s alright. We shall not be disturbed.”

“But the guards…”

“…Are stationed outside the door. And are loyal to me” he said firmly. He had not the patience to be worrying about guards, not tonight at least. He allowed his face to slip back into a smile again, as Maedhros relented, his limbs relaxing a little as he allowed himself to sink into Fingon’s embrace, making the sharing of space on the cold stone throne a little easier. “But what of _your_ loyalty, hmm?” Fingon carried on. “That, my dear lord cousin, is something that we still must ascertain.”

Maedhros, understanding, twisted around in his arms, gently pushing Fingon to lean against the throne’s high back. “I shall prove it myself then” he whispered, his arms slipping about Fingon’s neck as leaned forward. His knees came up to lean against the hard stone seat so that he was almost astride Fingon’s lap, supporting his weight against the stone. Fingon smiled, pulling him in about the waist, then gently by the backs of the knees, so that Maedhros was truly kneeling over him, the heavy folds of his robe pooling about them both. Fingon knew he wore nothing underneath; they had both fallen asleep unclothed and tangled in each others’ arms last night, and none of the rest of Maedhros’ clothes had been touched when he had left their room. The knowledge sent a frisson of heat through him, in counterpoint to the chill of the stone behind and around him, though even that was warming with their body heat all the while.

Maedhros’ hair, still loose from sleep, was hanging down, pooling about them both like a curtain, as Maedhros’ hand came up to the side of Fingon’s neck, slipping underneath his hair, tilting his head back and kissing him. Fingon gave a pleased purr and wound his own hand through Maedhros hair, tugging him closer. He opened his eyes for a moment to see Maedhros backlit by the very first grey light of a cloudy dawn, creeping in through the high windows. Maedhros’ face was mostly in shadow, but he knew it so well it didn’t really matter. The robe was slipping down one pale, freckled shoulder, exposing skin seamed with scars, like veined marble.

But marble was hard and cold, thought Fingon, even as he ran his hand down Maedhros’ shoulder, letting the robe slip down further. Maedhros’ skin had been a little chilled at first, and Maedhros had suppressed a shiver just now; the air was indeed always cold in this room before the great hearth fires were lit for the day. But now his skin was taking heat from Fingon’s own, flushing pink in that way it had that had always entranced Fingon so.

“Undo your belt” said Fingon, suddenly decisive, commanding. “Open your robe. I want to see you.”

Maedhros’ mouth opened a little, and Fingon thought he might speak, but he did not. Instead he did as Fingon said, his hand going to the clasp at his belt. Though all the fastenings on Maedhros’ clothes were designed to be opened and closed with one hand, Fingon felt compelled to help him with it after all, his hand reaching the clasp just after Maedhros’. Maedhros made a tiny sound as his robe fell from his shoulders, and Fingon’s eyes roamed over him in the pallid light. He was hard, Fingon saw - though he did not need to see, he had felt Maedhros’ arousal as their bodies had pressed close together not a moment before - and his skin was flushed all across his chest and up his neck. On impulse Fingon reached up and kissed Maedhros’ collarbone, his arms about his cousin’s back, holding him close to keep him balanced as Maedhros held himself over Fingon’s lap. He moved up, his mouth at Maedhros’ neck, even as his hands traced the knots of scar tissue that he knew so well; he thought could draw them from memory if asked.

“Fin…” mumbled Maedhros.

“Hush” said Fingon, placing two fingers gently over Maedhros’ lips. Yet as Maedhros’ hand went to the cord that bound his own robe, he let it, going to help him. At last Maedhros got him free and slipped the robe a little off his shoulders; he still wore it loose about his arms, but now his body was free, skin pressing against Maedhros’ in heated urgency. The stiff chiffon and slippery satin lining pooled around him, enfolding them both within the cold stone embrace of the throne.

He placed his hand at the small of Maedhros’ back. “Yes, come here my most treasured… my most loyal, most trusted of… ah… of lords. Show me what you may do for me.”

Maedhros’ hand was on him now, familiar and skilful as he had ever been, even as he ground down against Fingon’s thigh.

“No” said Fingon, placing a hand on Maedhros’ hipbone. “Not yet.” He let a little steel into his voice, and Maedhros stopped immediately, though he felt a moan of frustration rumble in his chest at the deprivation of sensation. Fingon pulled Maedhros closer again, his fingers pressing into the muscle of Maedhros’ thighs, delighting in this even as he meticulously avoided touching Maedhros’ cock itself. He loved to see Maedhros’ face in the throes of pleasure, but he forced himself to delay touching him; he knew that it would be all the better for Maedhros if he was made to wait. Long experience had taught him that to truly make Maedhros fall most effectively and completely to pieces, the process could not be rushed; the longer Fingon drew this out, the longer he indulged his own pleasure first - though it pained him every moment to do so while leaving Maedhros unsatisfied - the better it would be for his cousin in the end.

And so, with an imperious, slightly fey smile, he reached into the folds of the lining of his robe, pulling out the tiny bottle on its string. Maedhros’ face twitched in amusement at that. “Trust you to always have it on your person, Fin. I should have known.”

“A wise king - in fact, a wise person, of any kind - is always prepared for such eventualities as this” said Fingon, slipping his hand down between Maedhros’ thighs, beginning to prepare him. He could feel that Maedhros was still a little slick and open from the night before -  not really the night before, he supposed, since it had only been a few hours ago, if that - and that was good. His own patience was beginning to fray, even as he tried to delay. Finally, he broke his resolve, withdrawing his hands from Maedhros, who was twitching in anticipation even as Fingon was. He held onto Maedhros’ hips, moving them both gently into the right angle, his tip brushing against oil-slicked skin, sending another spike of wanting through him.

Fingon let his eyes flick upwards to meet Maedhros’, a silent asking of permission. They did not need words, not anymore; they understood each other perfectly. But even as he did so - in some part of his mind that was not distracted by his arousal - he was caught by the way that Maedhros’ thoughts made a little twitch of surprised satisfaction as the motion set off a memory, a vision unspooling, from Maedhros’ perspective. _Fingon was young then, long ago. They were both young, and learning the ways of each others’  bodies, and Fingon had peered up at Maedhros in just the same way, all wide blue eyes and dark lashes, full lips and raw, exposed emotion, a heart laid bare_ …

“I wasn’t like that” said Fingon, laughing a little, breaking the moment of their current situation a little. “I couldn’t have been. That skinny little creature was far too recklessly brave in throwing himself into confessions of love or into peril of utter humiliation at your fair hands. I am _much_ more cautious.”

“Lies. You would do the exact same now and you know it” said Maedhros, his smile twisting his mouth. He tutted slightly. “A good king never lies to his most trusted lords.”

“My sincerest apologies” said Fingon, pulling Maedhros close and kissing him at the corner of his mouth, with a laugh.

Maedhros’ teeth were gritted. “Just hurry up and get inside me” Maedhros ground out. “Honestly, you always give me the worst for being a tease, but with the way you’re going - ”

He broke off, swallowing a growl as Fingon pushed into him at last, biting his lip in satisfaction as he did so. After a moment, Maedhros began to move atop him, his left hand pressed against the back of the throne for support, level with the side of Fingon’s head. On an impulse, Fingon leaned sideways and lightly kissed the joint of Maedhros’ wrist, lost in sensation even as they found their rhythm with each other.

“Findekáno” murmured Maedhros under his breath, his eyes fluttering closed as Fingon lifted his hips slightly from the cold stone seat. “I will always… I will always love you… I swear it as a… as a subject to his king, a servant to his master, my life in your hands… I swear it in the name of - ”

“No” Fingon managed, his voice suddenly sharp as his breath caught in his throat at Maedhros’ words. He frowned, taking Maedhros’ face in his hands firmly. “None of that, I will not take a vow like that… or any vow of yours. Besides, it is not yours to make…”

The words seemed to clot and curdle in the air for a moment, before Maedhros smiled, nodding and letting his thoughts flow into Fingon’s, an understanding, an apology.  "Fine" he gasped. “Then at least you still have my loyalty. You will always have that.”

“I know” mumbled Fingon, as Maedhros held him, drawing him to his chest with the stump of his right wrist. “I know, Maitimo. You don’t have to say it.”

“But I will.” They were pressed so close now by Maedhros’ weight over Fingon that the sweat was sticky between their bodies, and the underside of Maedhros’ cock sliding against Fingon’s abdomen, cause Maedhros to hiss with pleasure. Fingon’s hands went to him at last, but he was distracted, too, by the heat enveloping him, the feeling of closeness and being inside Maedhros, undercut with the flicker of satisfaction that spiked through him at the thought of the stone throne beneath them. Here they were, the seat from which his rule extended, and outside the people would soon be waking up, his people. And here Maedhros was, with him, his loyalty given to Fingon and Fingon alone - as undivided and whole as his love was.

“Ah! Maitimo!” cried out Fingon, as Maedhros kissed his throat, hand pushing Fingon’s head gently back against the stone. “I'm… I’m about to…”

“Yes” said Maedhros, tensing his thighs about Fingon’s sides, as though to draw him even closer. “Yes, my love, I’m yours, come for me, come _in_ me…”

Fingon did then, his neck arching backwards, as Maedhros took him by the falling folds of his robe and kissed him, hard and heated. At last the spiking shocks of pleasure began to recede and diminish, and he was sinking into Maedhros’ arms, saved from slouching down in the hard stone chair, as Maedhros kissed the crown of his head. “Finno” he murmured. “My… my sweet, brave, beloved king.”

Fingon tipped his head back up, looking at Maedhros, gently touching his face. “Maitimo…” he searched Maedhros’ eyes for a while, affection and foreboding welling in his heart, in equal proportion. Then he grimaced. “You’re making my legs go to sleep. Get off.” His eyes flicked down. “Besides, I seem to have… not quite fulfilled my kingly duties to my most loyal lord yet…”

Maedhros laughed, as he took his weight off Fingon’s legs, letting Fingon slip out of him. “How nice of you to notice.”

Fingon stood up and twisted his spine, working the knots from his back even as he pushed Maedhros back down on his throne. “Lie down” he ordered, a light hand on Maedhros’ chest. “No, not like that, against the arm…” gently, he helped Maedhros lie down on his back, leaning against one arm of the stone throne, his long, beautifully muscled legs stretched out languidly over the other. Maedhros’ soft-soled indoor shoes must have slipped from his feet at some point, Fingon thought, because his feet were bare. Fingon was just watching in approving fascination as Maedhros’ toes clenched in frustration, his stomach muscles rippling as he shifted in the chair, and wondering if he might convince Maedhros to let him draw him like this one day, when Maedhros growled a curse. “Damn you, Findekáno, are you just going to stand there?”

“Oh” said Fingon, laughing despite himself. Maedhros’ erection had not receded any since Fingon had gotten distracted simply contemplating him; on the contrary, in fact, Maedhros seemed to have grown even more aroused under Fingon’s close scrutiny, his face and body flushing to a deeper pink and his face contorting as he fought to restrain his need. Fingon, still trying to stifle his laughter, gave an exaggerated courtly bow. “I do apologise, from the bottom of my heart…”

“ _Finno!_ …Please.”

“Alright! Alright.” Hearing Maedhros beg, his voice rising high and needy, was all it took. With a smile, he dropped to one knee before the throne. “After all” he said. “Never let it be said that I do not reward the loyalty of my lords in kind.”

With that, he wrapped his hands around Maedhros’ cock, pushing his cousin back down even as he tried to tense up, sitting up in the chair. “Shhh” he said. “Let me please you…”

“You always please me, Finno.”

With a smile, Fingon dropped his head, sparing a moment to kiss the softer skin on the inside of Maedhros’ thighs, letting the tension coil within his cousin for the merest moment more, relishing the sound of Maedhros’ frustrated grunts. Then at last he took pity on Maedhros, taking him quickly in his mouth, all at once. Maedhros’ thoughts went blank for a moment, as Fingon hollowed his cheeks, taking Maedhros deep, feeling him at the back of his throat. Then he began to move his head as Maedhros started to thrust erratically; it would not be long at all, he knew, not after all this. He grasped Maedhros’ hand, feeling the ridged finger joints, broken and badly healed long ago, so familiar now. He squeezed his cousin’s hand in his and Maedhros squeezed his back, hard enough to bruise.

At the same time he felt Maedhros shudder, felt the hot rush of his release at the back of his throat, the taste of it filling his mouth as the sound of Maedhros breathlessly moaning his name filled his ears. Fingon smiled around Maedhros’ cock as he wrung the last of the spasms of pleasure from him, before drawing back, swallowing and licking his lips, making sure Maedhros was watching. Maedhros went limp and boneless at that, his head tipping back over one arm of the throne, hair cascading in a fiery torrent to brush the floor, feet falling down over the other arm. Maedhros sighed in satisfaction, seemingly robbed of words at last.

Fingon pulled his robe about himself, suddenly aware of the cold, and picked up Maedhros’ abandoned garment for good measure. He sat down at the very edge of the throne, where Maedhros was not lying and began to drape the cloth about his cousin, leaning forward to kiss him, slowly and tenderly. Maedhros’ eyes were half-closed, seemingly lost still, but he grasped Fingon’s hand. “Finno” he murmured, through his haze. “Finno.” There wasn’t much else he needed to say, Fingon thought; Maedhros breathing his name like that was, often these days at least, enough.

After a while though, Maedhros opened his eyes fully, grasping Fingon’s hand once more, then sat up quickly. “We should leave” he said. “It’s morning. People will be coming.” Sure enough, dawn was coming truly now, though the light was still flat and dull, the clouds outside the windows like heavy layer of iron-grey.

“Well, what a romantic you are, my Maitimo” he said flatly as he pushed back the strands of hair from Maedhros’ forehead, before standing. “Ah well, but I suppose you and your damn practicality are right, as usual.” He sighed and stretched. “Should have gotten more sleep. I shall be drowsing at the council table.”

“Well, whose fault is that?”

Fingon jabbed Maedhros in the chest with an accusatory finger. “Yours.”

“I should say _yours_.”

Fingon grinned. “Well, maybe we should take it up with the council of lords and ladies. My father always said it was beneficial to get the opinion of the whole council when one party has a grievance to settle with another.”

“The One have mercy!” said Maedhros, in affectionate exasperation. “I _hope_ you’re joking.”

“They probably wouldn’t even be surprised” said Fingon, belting his robe once more. “As I said, I am certain everyone in this place knows about us.”

“They all think you can do much better than me though” said Maedhros.

Fingon smiled, taking Maedhros’ hand as his cousin rose to his feet, helping him with his clasp once more, fetching Maedhros’ cast off shoes and dropping them before him. “Well, they’re wrong.”

“A matter of opinion.”

“Well, fortunately my opinion is the one that counts, in this situation.”

“A fact for which I am, admittedly, grateful.”

Fingon offered Maedhros his arm. “Shall we?”

Maedhros took it with a nod.

The grey sunlight of a cold dawn filtered in through the high windows as they headed for the doors, the throne, for the moment, left behind them with the night.


End file.
